


Happenstance

by Laisidhiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laisidhiel/pseuds/Laisidhiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fan takes a holiday in the world of our favorite heroes. The problem? Guilt. It is not a matter of wanting to save everyone, but whether or not she should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happenstance

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own, nor have any rights over any of the characters pertaining to the Harry Potter series, nor is any copyright infringement intended. Margo remains my only creation.

At first, it was gradual.

The colours were first, sounds muffled as if spoken through a thick, inanimate object. They were blurred, difficult to make out, and harder still to distinguish. Was there one voice, or perhaps two? Maybe a whole group of voices, all trying hard to talk over the other? I grasped at the sounds, each one new as a colour formed in to a shape, and as the shape began to sharpen around the edges so did the voices. There were people, certainly more than one. That was all I knew. There was nothing else.

Time, it seemed, was irrelevant; whilst I had certainly thought that the voices I heard were not old, that they had been talking mere seconds ago, there seemed to be a margin in which I acknowledged them, and when I managed to put them to the figures. When I happened to open my eyes, the colours and figures less blurred then before, the room was empty. The noises had stopped, save a gentle ticking, and a soft, delicate whistle that whispered about the room.

It was then, amidst my gradual re-attainment of my senses, that I acknowledged the possibility I had lost consciousness some time ago, though I was so far unaware how this had occurred. I knew I was lying down, only because the objects were all sideways, but I could not remember falling asleep. In fact, though I concentrated heavily on this one particular event, nothing sprang to mind; in actuality, I had lost a memory of utmost importance. This realization, and the encounter of unfamiliar smells, instilled a fear so immediate that everything else was irrelevant, and I sprung up, both body and mind, to encounter a whole knew fear all in itself.

The room spun, but the rotation was slow – I was able to blink away the blurriness that followed a deep, unwelcome sleep. Before me was a small table, and beyond that an even larger one. To my left a staircase wound upwards, and little beyond that, closer to the larger table, was a mantelpiece; it boasted a collection of pictures and books, stacked three high, and a peculiar looking clock that nagged at the back of my mind as being eerily familiar. It reminded me of a cottage, both in size and contents, for the larger table occupied the majority of the kitchen where a door stood ajar, and ornate windows were pushed open welcoming the bright sunshine. The floor, mostly stone, looked cold despite the weather, and as I settled my own feet down I felt the tickle of soft fibers. In this instant it occurred to me that I was without footwear – the panic was not distilled, rather intensified by this new discovery.

_Where am I? How –_

If I could figure out where I was, I stood an equal chance of discovering how I had woken up here. The surroundings could not have posed less of a threat; my situation, however, encouraged a potentially dangerous predicament. I watched, out of some nervous apprehension, as shadows flitted across the kitchen floor. No matter what I did, the floodgates remained tight, firm, unyielding to my now desperate attempts to force them open and grant me answers. In this reluctant acceptance, I understood myself to have two options: remain, and hope that whoever resided here was both kind and knowledgeable, or I could run; the door was wide open, and whilst I was no athlete I fancied myself a fairly decent sprinter. I also decreased the likelihood of the occupants being dangerous or otherwise threatening by coming to the conclusion that were they either of those, then 1. the door would not be open, and 2. I would have woken with some kind of restraint. The door was open, I was not confined, and so with all the uncertainty and fear, the tiniest amount of hope I had managed to find gave me enough positivity to remain as I was; sitting still, arms wrapped around each other, eyes moving from one concealable place to the next.

Six minutes passed – and I counted each second – before I noticed anything out of the ordinary. A dishcloth, perfectly ordinary as a kitchen accessory, began to move. As if being held, it began to move against another perfectly ordinary object – a mug – which itself was suspended mid-air, as if held. It took me a moment, but in that moment I realized several things:

1\. The washing up was washing itself. 2. In that same second, the peculiar-looking clock on the wall moved, several hands stretching at once to different headings (curious, for a clock to have headings instead of numbers). 3. A giant ball of fluff leapt from the chair next to me, revealing another ball of wool, which then shivered, before two ornate sticks began to wind it between them, and 4. The house, and all its peculiarity, was the residence of a family whom until quite recently I believed to be works of fiction.

My right hand flew to my mouth. My knees sprung to my chest. In a single, swift movement both my arms wrapped as tight as was possible to be around said knees. Eyes still forward, I stared, huddled like a small, terrified child. My heart beat furiously against my chest. Blood pumped in my ears. The panic, the fear, the excitement – all had been building gradually, yet seemed to catch up all at once. It was a fear unknown to me, a fear which encompassed both dread and anticipation all at once. I tried to imagine it as a dream, but I could not move to pinch the smallest amount of skin. Dreams, to me, had always been abstract; never had I truly experienced a deep enough state of unconsciousness to live in something that felt real.

Everything here felt real. It was not just the feeling of the carpet beneath my feet, or the smell of wild flowers wafting through the window, or indeed even the clucking of chickens and the distinct scent of a country home – no, despite all of these things, it was the drumming of my heart and the _tap tap tap_ my feet were making against the ground – all habits of nervousness – that reinforced my belief that a dream could not be the furthest explanation from the truth.

Distracted by the ever-expanding bubble of excitement, I had neglected my observations – the door, previously ajar by the tiniest amount, was now wide open. No billowing force of wind had thrown it open, so it had to have been a person – one of the occupants – and sure enough, as I inclined my head steadily to one side I could just about peak round the side of the mantlepiece.

A mass of ginger hair produced itself at the pace of an extremely content slug. Big, round eyes soon followed, staring as if I were an abnormality, and no sooner had I opened my mouth, my own pace slow yet full of a feverish apprehension, did the girl disappear out the door.

I wanted to get up; I wanted to follow, but my feet would not move, nor would my body lift itself to stand. The funny thing about fear is that it is paralysing, that regardless of whether it is fuelled by excitement or dread you are stuck. With all the words I had spoken in my life, I suddenly found myself without a single one to use. This could not have been more unwanted. I had always imagined what I would say to any of the characters I had grown up with, yet now, as the door opened even more and not one or two but three people entered the room I could remember none of it.

In fact, the only coherent thing I was capable of doing was eliciting a rather shaky "uhm..." in response to a perfectly fair question.

"How did you get here?"

Naturally, "uhm" did not feel like the correct response, and in any case, I could not think of a less imposing opening line. It did not matter; Arthur Weasley had spoken, and it was imperative that I answer. Providing an answer that they wanted to hear was the issue; I could give them any name in the world, including my own, but any one of those could invite a snowball effect – I was desperate to avoid this at all costs. So I had just a few options, and very little time to pick one. The eventuality of this was overwhelming, as I was no conversationalist, and would have preferred to stick my nose in a book – preferably their book – damned be the consequences. If it struck me as odd that all I had for company now was Arthur, Molly and Percy Weasley, it was nothing compared to the look of compassion that beheld Molly's face. Clearly whatever I had stumbled in to, or whenever I had woken up, happened to be before any atrocities occurred; indeed, before anything bad. At a guess I would assume early Hogwarts years, judging only by the baby-face Percy wore. This begged further questions, and even more when I asked myself how I would gain these answers without earning a one-way ticket to St. Mungo's.

All questions aside, the mere act of thinking on them spoke wonders. I wanted to embark down one of three options, but I really needed more time to figure out which one was right. Sense told me that determining the time frame could not be done by asking whether or not Fred was alive, or even if Percy was a royal ass. Declaring myself a resident of another world would inevitably end in disaster. Blurting out that I was dreaming was my first thought, until I considered that I had not a single shred of proof that I was, particularly as everything here was so convincing. Falling at their feet was a big no-no.

In the end, I picked Hogwarts, drawing on every ounce of my knowledge of the fandom through years of loyal following. I mustered a breath, choked, and was about to start again when Molly cut through the silence.

"Oh Arthur, she is obviously confused. We should take her to St. Mungo's, or at the very least call someone to take a look." She paused. Percy folded his arms, though one clung to his wand. I scoffed at the idea of me being a threat. Naturally, they wanted answers – but so did I. I had to be clever and figure out a way to get my questions answered whilst not completely evading theirs. "What's your name?"

"Margo," I offered, thankful that an easier question had been given. My mind continued working overtime, grasping at any answer that appeared remotely useful or otherwise convincing. "I... uh, I don't remember..." I was not lying. It was the best I could offer without more time, and anyway, it really was not far from the truth. I could not remember. All I knew, at this precise moment, was that I had not fallen asleep, and that whatever had happened, it had given me an experience I should not take for granted.

Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, whilst Percy's narrowed. I caught myself watching him, caught between bewilderment and anxiety; it seemed improbable at this stage that Percy would be anything other than a concerned family member.

"I don't recognize you from Hogwarts. What house are you in?" Percy folded his arms, most certainly a man of authority even now.

"Hogwarts?" I squeaked, suddenly erect, as words began to fall about my ears. _Hogwarts, St. Mungo's, House?_ It were as if something had clunked me about the head; all at once, everything crashed and simultaneously came together.

"You two!" Molly tutted, pushed her way past them both and came to sit in the chair previously occupied by the self-knitting scarf. "Take some time to rest dear. We will keep an eye on you," she shot a look at her husband that spoke volumes about her character, "if you still struggle to remember, we can take you to St. Mungo's and get you sorted." Her voice sounded like butter; it melted, a continuous soft-spoken kindness that attached none of the vindictiveness her son would inherit. I glanced at Arthur quickly – he did not seem best pleased, not at first, but after a few seconds his frown softened.

"Thank you." It seemed apparent then that Molly had outspoken Arthur's uncertainty; she stood, and for a few moments they moved in to the kitchen, talking through hushed whispers, whilst Percy bore down his uncompromising scowl. Giddy with excitement and the knowledge of my whereabouts, I took this moment of clarity with both hands and truly began to peer about my surroundings. It was remarkable, that somehow these people were living and breathing before me, whilst I had previously only imagined it to be so. Nevertheless, I clung to my newfound sense of awe, dismissing any fears I had first encountered upon regaining consciousness. All fears, it seemed, had more or less diminished, and I was left with a tingling apprehension – the only real concern I could imagine was the plethora of lies I would have to weave in order to conceal my truth from them all. The Weasleys I did not imagine would be a problem, but my mind all of a sudden thought of Dumbledore, and I swallowed nervously.

The few moments passed, and both Molly and Arthur re-entered the room. Molly did not reclaim her seat, but stood resolutely beside her husband. Neither looked disappointed or angry, but there was an inherent sense of urgency I felt to think of something – fast.

"We found you by our chickens," she explained, as if it would help me remember. I stared, doing my best to appear dumbfounded.

"I know I was with someone," I offered, though the thoughts had barely transpired before they were out of my mouth. "I can't remember." I tried – for my benefit, not theirs – but I could not come to a conclusion as to where my last moments were. What I had told them was a passable lie; I _thought_ I had been with someone, but then came the nagging – the incessant poking around the back of my mind that told me I was straying in to cold water.

"Never mind – at least you are awake! We were starting to get concerned." Molly folded her arms now. "Could you possibly have apparated?"

The term was certainly not new to me, though it had not crossed my mind to offer it as an explanation. It fit quite perfectly, however, perhaps the only reason why I would have turned up in their residence.

So I did the only thing I could think of – I nodded. "Though I don't think I did." I was getting dizzy; the thrill of pretending that my language was theirs was overwhelming.

"I think you need rest," was the reply. I could not disagree with her more. I was wide awake, surviving purely on adrenaline. The last thing I wanted to do was close my eyes – what if this was all a dream? No, it couldn't be – dreams did not feel like this. To me they were disjointed. This was real.

Apparation did not explain my disappearance from one world, but it gave them something, and if nothing else it provided me with a stepping stone – the first lie to weave in a thickly tangled web.

**Author's Note:**

> This is, quite clearly, a work of complete fiction, all derived from copious amounts of fury at several plot points. I am attempting this "project" with all the dedication of a former fan-child, as it serves as a well-needed distraction from University. I have honestly had several debates with myself over whether or not "Margo" should intervene, though there would be little point to this otherwise. I adore JK's work, have grown up with it, so of course this is not intended to be an insult :) I hope you all enjoy.


End file.
